


Caveatus Corvidae

by TimeSquid



Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, young Garrett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeSquid/pseuds/TimeSquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett hasn't always been impossible to catch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caveatus Corvidae

[](http://s74.photobucket.com/user/Eleonore_2006/media/caveatuscorvidae_zps48ad8575.jpg.html)

Adrenaline surged through Garrett as he finally heard the heavy footfalls of the guard depart. Now was his opportunity.

Hiding in a convenient dark corner near the central staircase, he had taken great care to watch the routes of the four guards who patrolled the second floor of the manor, counting in his head to determine how much time passed between their rounds. Four minutes. He had four short minutes to make his way from his hiding spot to the safe that had to be hidden behind that awkwardly placed painting of suspiciously little artistic merit, open it, and get back to the safety of his dark corner. He had already searched the rest of the manor and found nothing apart from the usual baubles and pretty trinkets, and his fence had assured him that the statuette was still in the manor. It had to be behind that painting.

Mindful not to make any noise with the heavy sack of loot that he’d secured to his belt, Garrett crept towards the painting, uncomfortably aware of the several large, ornate chandeliers that illuminated the entire area. _Someone has money to waste on keeping the lights on all night_ , he grumbled under his breath. Winhill Manor had been challenging to navigate – there was too much light, too many guards and too little cover. He’d spent the best part of the night scouring an endless number of rooms for his prize. Several times he’d nearly been spotted, but hadn’t found a trace of the little statuette. He’d almost begun to suspect that the entire job was a set-up when he’d finally come across that odd-looking painting.

Frustration gave way to elation as his fingers found the switch behind the frame. He pressed it, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as the painting swung aside to reveal a safe. Glancing at the complicated lock, he hastily reached for his lockpicks. He had to hurry.

Garrett concentrated on keeping his breathing even and his hands steady as he carefully inserted the lockpick. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Too fast and he risked noisily dropping a tumbler, too slow and he wouldn’t make it back to his hiding place before the next guard came around the corner. Standing fully exposed in the light, he’d be discovered immediately. Relief spread over him after a few nerve-wracking moments when he finally heard a soft _click_. He quickly pulled the safe door open and—

A bolt shot out from an opening in the wall. He almost cried out as it lodged itself in his thigh. Pain immediately radiated from the wound and he stumbled, struggling to keep his feet. He nearly dropped his lockpicks in his haste to press his hand to his leg. Dazed by the pain, he gradually became aware of a faint sound. The guard! Panic gripped him, his gaze darting wildly across the room in search of the quickest exit or any possible hiding spot. He had to get away before the guard—

Too late. The guard was already rounding the corner. Garrett forced himself to ignore the throbbing in his thigh and started to run, but it was hopeless. The wound slowed him down and the guard, shouting to his colleagues for back-up, advanced on him far too quickly. He’d barely covered half of the distance to the nearest window when he felt the guard’s meaty hands on his arms, trapping him in an iron grip. He struggled, desperate to get free, and had nearly managed to dislodge the man when he became aware of movement in his peripheral vision and the unmistakable sound of booted feet against tiled floor. Arms finally free, he blindly lashed out at the guards that surrounded him. His efforts were rewarded with several blows to his head and stomach that sent him reeling. A particularly large guard tackled him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. The air was crushed from his lungs as he was held down by the man’s weight while his hands were tied together behind his back.

He scarcely had time to catch his breath before he was grabbed by the hair and roughly yanked upright again, a muscular arm around his neck forcing him back against the man’s chest. One of the men, slightly older than the others and presumably the one in charge, looked him up and down with a mixture of pity and contempt – a look Garrett was far too used to receiving.

“Well, well, well. What have we here? A little thief?” the man sneered. “Hmm, you’re nothing more than a kid. Well, aren’t you a lucky bastard. We usually kill thieves and dump them in the river, but Lady Winhill is a bit touchy about killing children.” Nodding to two of the other guards, he barked, “Hobbs, Milton, take him down to the station.”

Garrett didn’t feel so lucky. The trip to the Watch station passed in a haze of pain. The struggle against the guards had further aggravated the wound in his thigh, and he could feel warm blood trickling down his leg, the rough fabric of his trousers sticking to his skin. The restraints cut painfully into his wrists every time they tugged at them to pull him along. The longer strides of the guards made keeping up with them difficult, and he was almost relieved when they at long last reached the Watch station and he was thrown into a cell. He crumpled to the floor, too exhausted to care that it was probably filthy. _I never found out whether the statuette was even in that safe_ , was his last conscious thought before exhaustion and pain won out and everything went black.

****

When Garrett woke what appeared to be a couple of hours later, judging by the pale sunlight streaming in through a tiny window near the ceiling, it was to the sounds of rattling metal and men’s voices, none of whom he recognized. Dizzy and disoriented, he lifted his head, trying to blink the grit out of his eyes. Before he could even look around, the dull throbbing in his thigh and the overall soreness reminded him where he was and how he had gotten there. The bolt from the trap must have broken off at some point during the scuffle with the guards, but the tip was still stuck in his leg. His head was heavy and impossible to hold up. With a resigned sigh he laid it back down on the cold, hard floor, trying to cushion it with his arms. His wrists were chafed raw, but to his surprise someone had untied his hands while he‘d been asleep. Straining to make out the conversation on the other side of the door, he only managed to make out a few words, but they weren’t promising. Pavelock. They were sending him to Pavelock Prison. The thought sent a shudder down his spine.

He didn’t get to dwell on it for long. Garrett heard footsteps approaching, and then the cell door was wrenched open and two large men in City Watch uniforms entered the small room. A startled cry escaped him as they hoisted him up from the floor none too gently and half-dragged, half-shoved him through the Watch station and outside towards a waiting wagon. Garrett didn’t resist. In his current state and in broad daylight, he knew he didn’t stand a chance to get away. One of the men gave him a hard push and he found himself inside, staring up at the grim faces of several other prisoners.

The stench of nearly a dozen unwashed men assaulted him, and he had to make an effort not to gag. He fought to keep his breathing even as he felt the panic rising – there were too many people, too little space. He could feel them brushing against him – touching him. Without thinking he took a step away from the man closest to him, only to bump into another prisoner on his other side. Eyes widening with alarm, he stared up at the man’s face and recoiled. It wasn’t a friendly face. A nasty scar ran from the corner of the mouth to the temple, and the nose had clearly been broken several times. But what concerned Garrett the most was the man’s expression – something between a leer and a snarl. The man was clearly out for trouble.

“Oooh, would you look at that! Very generous of the Watch to provide entertainment for the journey!” The man guffawed, and to Garrett’s terror, a couple of others joined in. Dropping his gaze to stare intently at his feet, he shrunk back, wishing he could just dissolve into the shadows.

“Bit scrawny, though, isn’t he? Won’t last very long, I’m afraid. You guys will have to find your own toys.”

“Come on Bourke, save a bit of him for us!” another one shouted.

Anger started to mingle with the dread, but Garrett forced himself to keep his head down, staying as still as possible. It wouldn’t help the situation to antagonize the man.  
Every muscle in his body tensed as the man stepped even closer, towering over him.

“Why so coy? You too good for the likes of us? Let’s have a look at you.”

The man grabbed his chin and wrenched his face upwards. Garrett startled violently, lashing out blindly in reflex. There was a sickening crunch when his elbow connected with the man’s nose. His stomach turned as blood sprayed his face and he swallowed, fighting the urge to throw up.

Bourke roared in rage, and Garrett only just managed to throw up his arms in time to ward off what would have been a jaw-shattering blow. A fist followed, aimed for his stomach. He tried to twist away, but one of the other men grabbed him from behind, immobilising him. The force of the blow had him doubling over. Reeling and gasping for air, he was completely unprepared for the next attack. The rest of the prisoners cheered as blow after blow after blow rained in on him, until a particularly brutal punch to his midsection sent him crashing to the floor. Curling in on himself to protect his head and stomach as best as he could, he tried not to make any sound, not to give them the satisfaction. It was no use. The kicks kept coming, the other men joining Bourke, and he couldn’t stop the whimpers from escaping his throat. Pain overwhelmed him and he went limp. After what felt like centuries, everything faded out and he fell blissfully unconscious.

****

For the second time that day, Garrett woke up in a haze of pain and in unfamiliar surroundings. A sharp smell hung in the air that tugged uncomfortably at his memories, but he couldn't quite place it. He was lying on his back on a strangely smooth and cool surface. His entire body ached – it even hurt to breathe. When he tried to open his eyes he found the right one to be swollen shut, but from his current position all he could see was the glaringly bright lamps hanging from a whitewashed ceiling. Gradually he became aware of the sound of a pen scratching over paper, and the low voice of a man mumbling to himself.

“No internal injuries … fractured ribs … not fit for labour for at least a week…” Was he in a hospital? Was the man talking about him?

Gritting his teeth he attempted to sit up, but a large hand pressing against his chest immediately thwarted his efforts.

“Hold still, damnit. Let me finish this.” 

The man’s voice was not unkind, but that didn’t do much to alleviate Garrett’s growing unease. He thrashed against the hand, ignoring the waves of pain that every movement brought. His shoulders were seized and he was slammed back down again.

“Stay down, ya stupid taffer! Do we have to knock you out again?” another voice growled from somewhere behind him.

“Shut it, Gilbert. I won’t have you hurt my patients. Just hold him down.”

Coughing and gasping and too exhausted to struggle any longer, Garrett went still. He listened to the surgeon move about, trying to block out the unnerving sensation of being pawed and prodded at, powerless to prevent it.

He had almost dozed off when Gilbert gruffly ordered him to get up. Slowly, carefully, he swung his legs over the edge of what turned out to be an examination table, and got to his feet. Dizziness washed over him, everything slightly out of focus. His knees buckled, and two burly arms gripped him only just in time to prevent him from collapsing. Garrett blinked furiously, willing his vision to clear. He was held up and dragged over to the far end of the room, where a large wooden bathtub sat waiting.

Realising far too late what was happening, Garrett froze in horror as the surgeon started to unbutton what was left of his shirt. Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, he kicked and flailed, but Gilbert’s grasp on him was like a vice and the surgeon soon had the shirt pulled off. The threadbare trousers and underwear followed suit, and he was unceremoniously dumped into the cold water.

Garrett was mortified, but too worn out to be able to offer any resistance as Gilbert scrubbed him down vigorously enough to leave his skin an angry red, unmindful of his injuries. They cropped his hair, and finally weighed and measured him. He avoided looking at the guard, but he didn’t miss the barely suppressed snickering when the surgeon read out the data and jotted it down in his book. They didn’t bother restraining him while the surgeon bandaged the wound in his thigh – he clearly wasn’t in any condition to cause trouble – though Gilbert continued to hover nearby, in case his legs gave out again. Somehow, Garrett failed to be reassured by that.

At last, the surgeon scrutinized him for a moment as he stood shivering, far too vulnerable in the middle of the room. He frowned, then opened a drawer and took out a prison uniform consisting of rough-hewn trousers, a shirt, and a jacket. He handed the bundle to Garrett.

“Might be a bit big, but you’ll have to make do. Not sure I’ve got shoes in your size.”

Garrett didn’t answer but he took the clothes, grateful to have something – anything – to cover up with. He didn’t care about the shoes; he’d spent a long time not wearing any.

Once again Garrett’s wrists were restrained, this time not with a flimsy piece of rope, but with heavy iron handcuffs attached to a chain. Gilbert yanked at the other end.

“Come on then, you little shit. I haven’t got all day. Move it, or I’ll drag you there.”

He didn’t elaborate on where “there” was, but Garrett figured he’d find out soon enough. For now, he was more concerned with keeping on his feet. The handcuffs cut into his raw wrists as Gilbert tugged at the chain again. He stumbled along as best he could, casting wary glances at the other inmates and guards they passed in the corridors. The hollow-eyed expressions on the prisoners’ faces unsettled him. Was this what lay in store for him?

By the time they reached a sturdy metal door Garrett’s legs were shaking, and just putting another foot in front of the other seemed like an impossible task. He swayed, and Gilbert grabbed his arm, but instead of righting him he unlocked the door with his other hand and roughly shoved him through. Behind it was another featureless corridor where prisoners lined up against one wall. Guards were stationed every few metres along the opposite wall. He was deposited at the end of the queue, then Gilbert detached the chain from the cuffs and left through the same door, closing it behind him with a final-sounding thud.

It seemed like an eternity until he finally reached the front of the queue. One by one the prisoners were called into the room at the end of the corridor. Garrett had struggled to stay upright and had at one point, when he was sure his legs were about to give out, propped himself up against the wall, but a baton-brandishing guard had swiftly put an end to that. Fatigue and pain clouded his mind, his limbs numb. He almost failed to step forward when it was his turn to go in.

A desk stood in the centre of the small room with a mousy-looking clerk sat behind it. He looked up as Garrett entered and peered at him short-sightedly through his monocle.

“Ah, you must be the one they sent up from the infirmary. You look a fine mess, boy.” The man glanced down at the open register in front of him. “Trespassing, stealing from a noble, resisting arrest.” He paused and raised an amused eyebrow. “Assault?”

“Broke a bloke’s nose on the way here, sir,” one of the guards stationed at the door piped up.

“I see. Name?” he addressed Garrett again.

“Garrett.” Garrett was shocked at how unfamiliar his own voice sounded.

“No last name?”

He could only shrug. If he had one, nobody had ever told him. The clerk shot him a look, then took up his pen and scribbled something down in the register.

“Age?”

“About 18, I think.” The answer came out weak, barely audible. He was only vaguely aware of the clerk’s comment. Or maybe it was another question? He couldn’t be sure. Everything seemed so far away, unreal. His vision blurred, dark spots dancing before his eyes, and then his last reserves of strength ran out and he collapsed.

****

The clatter of metal startled Garrett to wakefulness. Groggily he lifted his head and opened his eyes – _eye_ , his right was still swollen shut – to take in his surroundings. It was dark, but his vision had adapted after years spent roaming the city at night, and he could easily make out the tiny room, the bucket in the corner, and the tray of food near a hatch in the iron door. Besides the wooden pallet he lay on and a small shelf with a basin and a brush on it, there was nothing else to see. The air was damp and chilly, and he could hear the faint sound of water slowly dripping from somewhere. He crinkled his nose, choosing not to dwell on the smell.

His first conscious thought was of escape. The only window was little more than a gap in the wall, not nearly big enough for even his undersized stature to fit through, and too high up to reach, and he had nothing to pick the lock with. As soon as he tried to sit up, however, he had to admit to himself that he was in no condition to attempt escape in any case. Just working his elbows underneath himself hurt, the motion jarring his fractured ribs. He leaned against the stone wall to catch his breath and rest for a moment, just staring at the ceiling.

This whole wretched situation was his own fault. If only he’d checked that safe for traps. If only he’d run faster. If only he hadn’t gone to that manor. _If only I weren’t so bloody useless._ Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, willed the memories away, but the Matron’s voice echoed in his mind. She’d been right about him. He couldn’t do anything right, would never amount to anything – and here he was, locked up in a cell, because he’d failed at the one thing he’d thought he was good at.

The loud growling of his stomach brought him back to the present. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last eaten or had something to drink. He couldn’t even tell for how long he’d been unconscious. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he forced himself to get off the pallet. His legs were shaking, and he had to steady himself with a hand against the wall to keep himself from tumbling to the floor. He took a couple of wavering steps, before sinking to his knees and crawling the rest of the way to the door. The cell was smaller than the abandoned attic room he tentatively called home, but in his current state just getting from one end of the cell to the other left him sweating and gasping for breath. The gasps turned into painful coughs. Exhausted, he slumped against the door, the metal hard and cold against his back.

It took a while until he felt up to inspecting the tray of what was either his dinner or breakfast – he couldn’t be sure. He reached for the canteen of water first, almost draining half of it in one go before forcing himself to stop. There was no telling how long this had to last him. He took up the bowl of gruel next. Hungry as he was, he wasn’t sure he’d be able just yet to stomach the stale bread that made up the rest of his meal.

Garrett drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep for the next few hours, occasionally lifting himself up just enough to take another sip of water or nibble on the bread. He’d fallen asleep on the clammy floor, and he couldn’t bring himself to move back to the pallet. It wouldn’t be much more comfortable anyway, if slightly drier. Years spent on the streets of the City had left him used to sleeping in what spaces were available.

Wan rays of sunlight streamed through the tiny window when Garrett was startled awake once again by an ungodly bang. Wincing at the sudden noise, he’d barely opened his eyes when the door was unlocked and two guards entered the room. He stared up at them blearily. They seemed almost as surprised to find him sprawled on the floor right in front of them as he was by them standing in his cell. He noticed that one of them kept a hand on his truncheon, ready to attack in case he tried to make a run for it. He almost laughed. Right now, he’d be lucky just to get off the floor. The other guard set down a tray of food and dumped a large sack on the ground. When Garrett blinked at him in confusion, he sneered.

“Mending. Better be done with that before dinner, if you want to eat.”

With that, he picked up the old tray and turned, and they both left. The door banged shut behind them. Garrett’s keen eyes didn’t miss the bunch of keys hanging from the men’s belts, but he knew he was too weak and too sluggish even to pickpocket them, let alone make his way out of the prison. He needed time to heal before he attempted anything.

Breakfast consisted of the same stale bread and gruel as dinner, but Garrett had starved often enough to be grateful for whatever food he got. When he’d finished it he felt marginally better, but the task of mending still filled him with apprehension. If he was going to survive long enough to escape, he had to keep his head down and do as he was told. Sewing had been one of the more useful skills he’d learned at the orphanage and he was fairly good at it, but the pile of clothes – some little more than rags – was enormous. Memories flooded him of a little boy crying over his lost parents as he worked, and he fought to keep them at bay. Struggling for all these years, and he was back to where he started – trapped and with a sewing needle in his hand.

It didn’t take long before it became increasingly difficult to focus. His injuries made sitting on the hard floor for extended periods of time agonising, and his hands were trembling. He knew he was being far too slow when by the time a tray with his lunch was pushed through the hatch he had only worked through a fraction of the pile. Evening came – Garrett wasn’t entirely sure whether far too soon or not soon enough. He sat huddled on his pallet with his knees tucked to his chest, worn out and hungry, trying to ignore the rumbling of his stomach. He hadn’t been able to finish his work, not by a long shot.

****

The next few days passed very much the same – breakfast, mending, lunch, more but never enough mending, and no dinner. Garrett’s injuries slowly began to heal, but he could feel the missed meals taking their toll on him. The only break in the routine came when one morning, instead of depositing his meagre breakfast and daily load of mending on the floor, the two guards roughly hoisted him to his feet and dragged him out of the door.

“Time for a wash, ya filthy rat.”

After days of cleaning himself only with a brush and cold water from the little basin in his cell, Garrett was relieved to finally be able to wash properly. His anticipation abruptly turned into dread as the guards led him into a large tiled room with showers along the walls. Men in various states of undress were milling about, washing, talking, arguing – the noise alone was dizzying after days of almost complete isolation. The guards jostled him to an alcove with several racks from which the other prisoners’ clothes hung.

“What you waiting for, boy? Need your mother to help you?” one of the guards barked, pointing to an empty one.

Garrett swallowed. He’d spotted Bourke and his cronies at the far end of the room. The huge man was even more intimidating naked than he was dressed, not to mention repulsive. Instinctively he took a step back, trying to hide behind the guards. He slowly, hesitatingly unbuttoned his shirt, then slipped it off his shoulders. The guards glared at him impatiently, and he hurried to untie the piece of string that held up his too-large trousers.

“What’s your problem, you little shit?! Move it already!”

Garrett stood petrified as one of the guards simply grabbed the waistband of his pants and tugged them down. Before he could protest, he was pushed in the direction of the showers.

Keeping his head down, he silently padded over to the nearest free shower, careful to keep out of Bourke’s line of sight. He stepped under the water, and for a few fleeting moments, he felt almost at peace. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the din of the other men and concentrated on the sound of the water, imagining himself standing on a rooftop high above the City, gentle rain falling on his skin— He startled violently as he was shoved from behind with enough force that he staggered and had to catch himself against the tiles.

“You gonna keep hogging that shower forever, princess?”

Shrinking back against the wall, he stared up at the man. His heart skipped a beat as he realised that he’d seen him before – he’d been one of the men in the wagon. Quickly darting to the side, Garrett tried to get away from him, but the man just casually leaned forward with one hand against the wall so that he loomed over him, trapping him. He could feel the panic rising in his throat. There was nowhere to go, no shadows to hide him – just him, exposed and vulnerable and alone. No one would help him. No one ever did. 

Garrett’s desperate attempt to duck under the man’s arm and to bolt was stopped in its tracks as the man grabbed his shoulders and slammed him back against the wall. He twisted and squirmed, and finally managed to wriggle out of the grip, when he realised with horror that the commotion had alerted Bourke.

“Oooh, if it isn’t our little seamstress. You’re moving up in the world, aren’t ya?” Bourke slowly advanced on him, a nasty grin revealing missing teeth. “At this rate you’re gonna make it to Baron’s mistress in no time. But first,” he took another step, and now the massive frame towered over him, his naked body far too close, almost touching him. “But first, I believe we have a score to settle.”

Bourke readied his fist and Garrett flinched, bracing himself for the blow. But it never came. He blinked in disbelief as a meaty arm wrapped around Bourke’s neck, the pressure against his throat forcing him back, away from Garrett. 

A booming voice echoed through the room. “Pick on someone your own size, ya gutless invertebrate!

The man gripping Bourke in a stranglehold was a veritable giant. Taller even than Bourke, broader in the chest too, and covered from head to toes in tattoos. Even the other prisoners seemed intimidated by him. Garrett stood frozen in shock, not daring to move lest they focus their attention on him again. Bourke roared, elbowing his attacker in the stomach hard and freeing himself. He turned around spewing abuses, and a full-blown brawl broke out between the two men. Sensing his opportunity, Garrett fled.

Not a moment too soon – from the relative safety of the alcove where the clothes were stored, he watched as guards swarmed towards the fight, breaking it up using fists and batons. Both men were eventually wrestled down, restrained and taken away. Shaken up and trembling, Garrett sank down to the floor, pressing himself into the corner underneath the racks. He knew he had to get back under the shower before the guards found him here. He just needed a few moments to regain his composure.

That evening as he lay curled up on his pallet in a tight ball, he could hear the sounds of Bourke and the other man getting punished in the yard drift through the tiny window. He had to get out of here. He winced at every too-familiar crack of the whip. After a while – he very carefully didn’t count the lashes – the men started howling in pain, and Garrett squeezed his eyes shut in shame. There was no doubt in his mind that Bourke would have beaten him to death had the stranger not intervened. Now the man was out there, in agony, but what Garrett felt wasn’t pity, it was fear. Fear that he had made another enemy, fear of inevitably facing Bourke again. Fear that one day it would be him out there getting whipped.

****

Garrett eyed his breakfast warily. It was the usual thin gruel and old bread, but the bowl seemed fuller this time, the piece of bread slightly larger. Or was he just getting used to the small portions? His stomach growled, reminding him uncomfortably of all the dinner trays the guards had snatched away from him again when they saw that he hadn’t finished his mending. He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but as he ate he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss, that something bad was about to happen. They wouldn’t give him extra food without good reason, and the sack of clothes that usually came with his breakfast was suspiciously absent. Were they going to execute him, and this was his last meal? They’d never told him what his sentence was.

Trepidation filled him when the guards entered his cell again, the sack of mending still nowhere in sight.

“On your feet. Holiday’s over, time for some real work.” The guard turned to his colleague and added, “Let’s see how long the scrawny fuck lasts. This should be fun to watch.”

Laughing, they cuffed his hands and led him out, down a series of corridors. Despite his growing disquiet, Garrett kept his eyes sharp, taking note of doors, locks, windows, guard posts, anything that would help him to get his bearings. He didn’t even know where his cell was located. They made their way through a yard and finally entered a small building.

A large device he had never seen before filled the majority of the room, its dull, grinding sound almost deafening to Garrett’s sensitive ears. In a way, it resembled a water wheel, but it was much wider, and instead of by water, it was powered by a row of prisoners treading the paddles as if ascending stairs. The men sweated and grunted with exertion, some obviously struggling to keep up. The guards removed his handcuffs and motioned him to a bench along the opposite wall to wait for his turn with a handful of other prisoners. His heart nearly stopped when he recognised Bourke amongst them, but before he could even sit down a bell rang, the sound shrill enough to penetrate the racket. They were ushered to take the men’s places on the wheel.

Within minutes, sweat ran down his forehead, and the pain from his injuries was flaring. The past week had felt like an eternity, but it hadn’t been nearly enough time to heal. The bruises were already fading, but the wound in his leg still ached, and his broken ribs hurt every time he as much as took a deep breath. Garrett clung to the handrail as if it were a lifeline, terrified of slippling as he felt his strength run out. His muscles burned, and black spots started to appear in his vision. He was certain he was about to pass out when mercifully the bell sounded and the other shift of prisoners took over again. Legs trembling and soaked with sweat, Garrett sank down on the bench. Far too soon, the bell marked the beginning of his next shift.

Periods of working the treadwheel alternated with too-short breaks for the next hours. Over the course of the day Garrett had gradually found a rhythm that made the work somewhat easier, but he still felt heavier and heavier with each step. Sweat burned in his eyes, every muscle in his body was on fire, and it took all the willpower he could muster to just keep the rhythm. He was completely unprepared when the wheel suddenly sped up. His feet slipped off the paddles, and with a cry, he skidded down across the paddles and crashed to the floor. Barely holding on to consciousness, he dimly registered Bourke’s satisfied smirk. A wave of vertigo overcame him as someone picked him up like a sack of grain and slung him over their shoulder.

****

“You again. You just can’t keep out of trouble, can you?” A vaguely familiar voice cut through the fog of pain clouding Garrett’s mind. His arm was lifted, and he felt the sting of a needle and a cool liquid entering his veins.

“You’ve cracked your ribs again – they hadn’t yet healed. Will be pretty painful for a while. Other than that, you were lucky. Just badly bruised, is all.”

 _Back in the infirmary, then._ Garrett was surprised to find himself laying not on the cold, hard examination table, but on a cot with an actual mattress. It was the most comfortable he’d been in a long time – if it weren’t for the piercing pain every time he took a breath and the overall soreness. Confused, he blinked up at the surgeon, his eyes refusing to focus.

“I’m going to keep you here for a couple of days. You’re in no condition to go back to work.”

Slowly, the pain faded to a dull ache. He grew drowsier by the minute, everything blurring until he could fight the pull of sleep no longer.

For the first time in over a week, Garrett woke feeling almost rested. He still hurt, but he had slept comfortably and for more than a few hours at a time. There was a tray of food on a small table next to the bed. It contained the same drab breakfast he’d gotten used to, but unlike before it wasn’t accompanied by the clatter of metal and the scowls and taunts of the pair of guards who brought it. He gingerly sat up to reach for the bowl of gruel, immediately regretting the decision as a wave of pain descended over him. A gasp for breath turned into a coughing fit, and he sank back onto the cot. A moment later the surgeon appeared at his side. Garrett tensed as the man leaned down and reached for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, boy, just helping you up. You need to take it easy if you want these ribs to heal.” The surgeon looped an arm under him and propped him up in a sitting position with several pillows, then handed him the bowl. “Here, eat this, they’re sticking out even worse than when I saw you last.”

Hesitating for a moment, he accepted the bowl and slowly began to eat, warily keeping an eye on the man who lingered nearby, rummaging through drawers and taking notes. When Garrett had finished his meal the surgeon approached his bedside again, a syringe in his hand.

“Opium, for the pain. Helps you sleep, too. Not much else I can do for you, except keep you safe for a while. Rumour has it this wasn’t an accident, was it?” He gestured in Garrett’s general direction, indicating the numerous darkening bruises and abrasions all over his body.

Reluctantly, Garrett shook his head.

“Can’t say I’m surprised. There will always be bullies, and scared little boys like you make an easy target. Now give me your arm.”

Garrett glared at the man but complied, and it wasn’t long before he drifted off again.

The next hours – or it might have been days, or weeks – ran together in a timeless blur. From time to time the poppy-induced fog cleared long enough to allow Garrett to eat and drink, then he was swiftly put under again. In his brief lucid moments, he wondered whether it was to keep him from pain, or to prevent him from causing trouble. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the infirmary, when angry voices penetrated the haze.

“The little rat needs to get back to work. This is a punishment, not a holiday!”

“I will not release my patient before he is ready. I’m not wasting effort and money on him just to have you butchers kill him within a day. Just look at what happened last time!”

“You will do as I say. I want him back at the wheel by tomorrow.”

“You will not threaten me! He’s staying at least three more days. Any earlier than that, and he’ll just end up here again in no time. Now go back to licking the governor’s boots. I’ve got work to do.”

Garrett flinched at the loud bang of the door slamming shut. Seeing him awake, the surgeon approached his bed and sat down in a chair beside it with a heavy sigh.

“Now listen, boy. I can’t keep you here forever. But if you want to survive in this place, you’re gonna have to keep your head down and stay out of trouble. Hardened criminals twice your size die here all the time, and don’t you think any of those brutes will care.”

With another deep sigh, the man got up again and started to pace.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to end up here, and frankly, I don’t care. By the looks of you, you’re probably just a petty thief. Try not to make any new enemies, or you won’t last another week.”

Too groggy to keep his eyes open, Garrett lay there listening to the surgeon’s agitated pacing. The sounds only served to set him further on edge, their relentlessness reminding him of a caged animal. He had to get out of here. The surgeon had only spoken aloud what he had already known: he wouldn’t survive here much longer. Either Bourke would kill him, or it was just a matter of time until the treadwheel did. If only he weren’t so drowsy – he could barely stay awake, let alone attempt an escape.

****

Three days later Garrett was back in his cell, sitting on the floor next to the door with his back against the wall as he had that first terrible night. He felt better than he had in over a week – the pain from his injuries had become manageable, and he was rested, stronger, no longer faint from hunger – but his head throbbed, and his hands shook. He couldn’t tell if it was from fear, anxiety or opium withdrawal. It didn’t matter. He’d just have to ignore it. Staying perfectly still, he listened for the telltale sound of heavy boots out in the corridor.

He didn’t have to wait long. Not a minute later, the door swung open and the familiar pair of guards stepped into the small, dark room. Garrett didn’t move. For once, he was grateful for the men’s disdain for him. The guard didn’t spare him more than a quick, contemptuous glance as he set down the dinner tray; the other was busy inspecting his fingernails. Garrett held his breath, willing his hands to stop shaking for _just this moment._

The instant the guard turned to leave, Garrett seized his opportunity. In one fluid, well-practised motion his hand darted forward and he grabbed for the bunch of keys that hung off the man’s belt, quickly closing his fingers around them to keep them from jangling.

He almost sobbed in relief as the guards shut the door behind them and went on their way. Sinking back against the wall, his whole body quivering with barely suppressed nerves, he cradled the bunch of keys against his chest like a newborn child. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. Now he just had to get out, and he knew he had to hurry. It wouldn’t take the guard long to realise his keys were missing.

Nearly vibrating out of his skin with tension, Garrett waited for the footfalls of the guards to fade away. He pressed himself to the floor and carefully opened the hatch to peek through it. When he was satisfied that there were no guards in the corridor outside, he inserted the first key in the lock, but it took several tries until he found the right one. _Always the last one you try_ , he muttered to himself. His heart hammered in his chest as he slowly, cautiously opened the heavy door and slipped through, only stopping long enough to close it behind him. He quickly dashed into the next available shadow, his bare feet silent on the dirt floor.

From the relative safety of his alcove, Garrett observed the corridors for a moment, listening intently for any sign of life. Everything was quiet for now. What troubled him was the amount of light in the corridors. Electric lamps were mounted in regular intervals high up near the ceiling, flickering eerily on occasion, but leaving hardly any shadows. Even if he could find a switch to turn them off, or disable them somehow, any guards nearby would immediately become suspicious. It didn’t matter – he couldn’t stay here, he had to keep going. The surgeon’s words rang in his ears. He wasn’t going to survive in this place.

Swallowing the uneasy feeling, he picked one corridor at random and ran, trying not to think about everything that could go wrong. He just had to be quick about it. There had to be another hiding place somewhere further down, a window to look out to get his bearings, a door that led outside. He just had to get away from here.

His stomach plummeted and he froze as a patrol rounded the corner in front of him.

****

Someone was making a speech, or rather shouting at him, but Garrett only registered it as noise, the individual words flying over his head. He was too focused on trying to keep the nausea at bay and the shaking under control. It was getting difficult to breathe, his chest constricting as if someone was crushing him, squeezing until he was lightheaded and his legs threatened to give out. He knew what was coming, and he desperately shoved aside the memory of a crying little boy covered in his own blood.

Stripped to the waist and surrounded by guards, he was chained by his wrists and ankles to a sturdy wooden rack in the centre of the yard. Prisoners lined the area on all sides, impatient at the prospect of a spectacle, jeering and taunting him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to deny the reality of the situation, but he couldn’t block out the malicious laughter. He was certain he could make out Bourke among the voices clamouring for his blood. It was a chilly autumn evening and a stiff breeze blew from the river, but sweat already ran in rivulets down his back.

Garrett clenched his teeth as one of the guards approached and took his position a few paces behind him. The man spat into his hands. A moment later, Garrett heard the hideous whistle of the leather string cutting through the air. He tensed his shoulders, anticipating it, knowing it was coming, but still the sting of the first blow jolted through him like an electric shock, sending him reeling against the rack. The ghastly cadence of the cheering crowd washed over him. He took a shuddering breath, preparing himself for the next lash.

The whip cracked again an instant later, the tail hitting him across his already aching ribs. Garrett winced and writhed, struggling to keep from crying out. Another lash, and he was gasping for breath, tears forming in his eyes. Another, and he thought he was being cut in two, the thin leather cutting across his back and wrapping around to his side. Another, and another, and another. His skin finally broke as the strokes began to overlap, the hot blood running down his back and mixing with the cold sweat. He retched, unable to fight the nausea anymore. It didn’t take much longer before he was screaming in agony, begging for it to stop, heedless of the goading shouts from the other prisoners. His knees buckled and he hung limp and shaking in his chains, the screams dissolving into sobs and whimpers as lash after lash was delivered.

At long last, it was over. The chains around his ankles and wrists were released. Garrett crumpled to the floor, hanging on to consciousness only by a thin thread. Strong hands picked him up and heaved him onto a stretcher, and he was carried off to the infirmary.

****

The angry voice of the surgeon shook him out of his pain-fogged stupor. “You stupid little taffer! I told you to keep your head down and stay out of trouble, and what do you do?! Try to escape! How stupid can you get?! Now look at you!”

Garrett didn’t need to see the criss-crossing cuts on his back to assess the damage. He hissed through gritted teeth at the sharp sting of antiseptic as the surgeon disinfected his wounds. The man was usually calm and perplexingly kind, almost gentle, but now he sounded livid.

“I should just let you suffer – you brought this all onto yourself. But this looks painful, and I’m not a monster.” The voice softened slightly. “You panicked, didn’t you? You’re terrified enough it’s addled your wits. Now sit up.”

Slowly, sluggishly, he obeyed, the surgeon assisting him with a steadying arm at his elbow. Garrett glanced down as a syringeful of opium was injected into the already rather perforated crook of his arm. He didn’t like being sedated, hated the helplessness, the oblivion it brought. Being alert, always aware of his surroundings, able to bolt at the first sign of danger had been his only chance at survival for as long as he could remember. But it _hurt_ , and he knew he didn’t have a choice anyway. The surgeon proceeded to bandage his back, then helped him slip a fresh shirt over his head and led him to one of the cots. The opium had begun to take effect, and he gratefully sank down on the soft mattress.

When Garrett startled awake from a nightmare it was dark outside and everything around him was quiet. The dream was already fading into a blur, but it left him unsettled and restless. Once more, despite everything, or because of everything that had happened, only one thought pervaded his muddled mind: _He had to get out._ Still drowsy and somewhat disoriented, he carefully lifted himself up into a sitting position and looked around. The other cots were empty and the surgeon nowhere to be seen, but there was a guard sitting on a rickety chair next to the only door. The man was obviously sleepy and bored, but nonetheless horribly in his way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something glittering on the nightstand. A syringe full of opium. Garrett’s pulse sped up, an idea forming in his mind. His gaze darted wildly about the room, quickly considering his options. The surgeon must have laid out the syringe and then got distracted or called away. He had to hurry.

Keeping an eye on the guard on the other side of the room, he quietly slipped out of bed and hunkered down behind it. He hastily ripped the bottom-most button from his shirt. It wasn’t ideal, but the best he could come up with on the spot. After a couple of agonising seconds, the man finally looked away. Garrett aimed the button at the small glass window set into the door. It hit with a soft, but distinct clink. The moment the guard turned around to investigate, Garrett lunged forward. Swiftly but silently he crossed the room and jabbed the needle into the guard’s neck.

His heart nearly stopped when instead of going down, the guard merely faltered slightly, but stayed standing. Panicking, Garrett grabbed for the nearest heavy object – which happened to be the chair the man had been sitting on – and brought it down on his head as hard as he could. He winced at the sickening sound of wood against bone, but to his relief the guard wavered and dropped to the floor. Garrett stared at the splintered remains of the chair in horror. He pulled himself together. There wasn’t much time; the surgeon could be back any minute. Hands shaking with nerves, he hurriedly took the man’s keys and rifled through his pockets in search of anything – anything at all that might be useful. Apart from a few coins, which he pocketed out of habit, all he found were a book of matches and a penknife. Better than nothing. Tucking both away, he cast a last glance over the room. There were several cabinets that would probably be worth checking, but he couldn’t afford to take the time.

After observing the corridor for a moment through the glass, he gently opened the door and slipped out. His mouth ran dry as the memory of what happened last time came unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He had to be more careful, couldn’t repeat that mistake, couldn’t get caught again. The pain was manageable for now, the opium still taking the edge off it, but the thought of another flogging sent shivers down his spine.

Like all the other corridors he’d seen in this place, this one was appallingly devoid of both shadows and hiding places, evenly lit by harsh electric lights and lacking any furniture. Garrett let out a breath he hadn’t been aware that he was holding as he spotted a square opening in one of the walls. A vent! For once he was glad of his small, thin frame. It would be a tight fit, but he was certain he could squeeze through, and the guards wouldn’t be able to follow him. It wouldn’t be long now before the surgeon found him missing and sounded the alarm to alert the entire prison.

Garrett grimaced as his back brushed against the top of the vent with every movement. On his hands and knees he made his way through the narrow tunnel, careful not to make any noise. It was an arduous process, and he had no way of knowing where the passage led, but for now, every step away from the infirmary was an improvement. They were sure to search the immediate area first.

He’d come a fair ways when the piercing trill of the alarm sounded and his surroundings erupted in an uproar of shouts and stomping boots. Garrett stilled. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his racing heartbeat. He just had to keep going. He didn’t have time to fall apart. It took him a moment to collect himself before he continued to crawl. His knees ached by the time he reached a junction in the tunnel. There was one branch to his left, but far more promising was the chute leading down. He hesitated briefly as he realised that the slope was too steep to get back up. It didn’t matter. Staying here wasn’t an option, and he had to get to the ground floor eventually.

Manoeuvring onto his stomach with his feet facing forward in such a confined space was a laborious procedure that left him sweating and panting, the wounds on his back on fire. The effects of the opium were beginning to wear off. Finally, he slid down the chute and landed in a similarly narrow shaft a floor below. After resting for a minute, Garrett silently crept onwards, the tunnel winding and branching off several times before he reached another vent. He’d been forced to pick a route at random, since he neither knew where he’d started nor where the exit was. Listening intently for any guards in the vicinity, he took out his stolen penknife to loosen the grate that was covering the vent. It took a while, but when it finally came off he found himself in a kitchen.

The smell of onions and cabbage hung in the air, and Garrett’s stomach growled. He realised that he couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. It had to have been some time before the flogging - they hadn’t given him any food since then. Ducking behind a counter, he glanced around. A portly old woman was hard at work chopping vegetables at a table on the far side of the room, but apart from her, the kitchen was blessedly empty. The door near her probably led to the pantry. Hungry as he was, he ignored it and instead focused his attention on the other door. Never taking his eyes off the woman, he tiptoed to the door. There was no keyhole to peek through, so he had no choice but to open the door a crack and hope for the best.

Seeing no one in the corridor beyond, he stepped through and cautiously closed the door behind him. He felt the colour drain from his face as he spotted three guards coming down the stairs at the other end of the corridor, hands resting on their batons and clearly on the alert, looking for him. _What now?_ The kitchen was far too well lit, and he’d be trapped there. There were no other doors near him, no alcoves, no furniture to hide behind—

The pipes. The pipes were his only chance. Before he could stop to think about whether it was a good idea in his present condition, he was already clambering up. The metal was cold and slippery under his bare feet, and once or twice he was certain he’d slip, he’d fall, he’d get caught— Ignoring the pain and forcing down the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, he made it to the top and scrambled over the edge onto the pipeline that ran along the corridor close to the ceiling. _Don’t look up don’t look up don’t look up_ please _don’t look up—_

Garrett didn’t dare to breathe until the guards were well past him, watching in terror as they searched the corridor and even went into the kitchen. Relief flooded him when they went back upstairs after what felt like hours. Shaken and exhausted, he remained sitting on the pipes for a little while longer, his ribs and back throbbing after the climb. He could feel fresh blood seeping into his bandages.

For the moment, the pipes were without doubt safer than the corridor below, even though he had to tread carefully so as to avoid making any noise. He inched forward on his hands and knees, following the pipeline until he noticed a wooden door. Surely it couldn’t be…? Listening intently for any threat, he looked down. It was a fair distance, but he didn’t see another way. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and jumped. His landing was almost perfectly silent, but the impact jarred his ribs and he couldn’t stop a small hiss from escaping his throat.

Frantically looking around, he made sure he was alone before he inspected the lock. For a prison, it was a surprisingly unsophisticated one. If the door indeed led outside, it had to be a servants’ or traders’ entrance – they clearly didn’t expect any prisoners to ever come near it, and certainly not any skilled thieves. Unfortunately, all the skill in the world was of no use to Garrett without his lockpicks. He had to hope one of the keys would fit.

His heart hammered almost painfully against his ribs as he tried one key after another. This was taking too long, a patrol could come by any minute, surely they were still looking for him! He couldn’t fail now, not when he was so close. His hands trembled as he tried key after key after key, and he was sure he’d picked up the faint sound of footsteps coming closer when he finally, _finally_ found the right key. Turning it, he opened the door and hurriedly slipped through.

The foul odour of the river mingled with the smog and pollution from the new factories, wafting through the air and descending over Garrett like an oily film. It was the sweetest scent he’d ever breathed. He stood rooted to the spot, taking in the familiar sight of South Quarter as if he’d never seen it before. He was free. He’d actually made it. It had only been a little over two weeks, but it felt like years had passed since he’d last seen the night sky, stood on the dirty, rain-slicked streets, breathed the noxious air.

Garrett shook himself. He had to keep going – it wasn’t safe here. Keeping to the shadows he set off at a run. Despite the exhaustion and the pain it felt good, almost comforting, to sneak through the City, the darkness enveloping him like a blanket, the slight breeze caressing his skin. He picked his way through dirty back alleys, squeezed past haphazardly stacked grates, dodged heaps of refuse. The familiarity of it all seemed unreal.

Without the urgency of immediate danger, the adrenaline that had kept him going wore off bit by bit, and he slowed his pace. He considered resting for a while, but he wasn’t far enough from the prison yet. Uncomfortably aware of his conspicuous clothes, he made his way east, circumventing the few people that were out and about this late at night. With any luck he would find a washing line from which to steal new clothes. Preferably dark ones, but anything without bloodstains and a large printed number would be a change for the better. The blood had soaked from the bandages on his back into his shirt, making both stick unpleasantly to his skin.

Setting one foot in front of another became progressively more difficult. Fatigue and hunger dragged him down, making him feel heavier and heavier by the minute, and his injured ribs protested. Just a little further, and he’d be safe, he could rest. If he could only get onto the roofs at Eel’s End— 

Garrett made it another few steps before his legs gave out and he collapsed in the street, too spent to get up again.

He didn’t know how long he’d lain there, barely conscious, when the overpowering scent of alcohol and cheap cologne assaulted him.

“You alright there, pal? There’s umm … looks like blood on your back.” The voice sounded concerned, a bit wary, and unquestionably rather drunk.

Garrett weakly lifted his head. A pudgy, somewhat unkempt man a little older than himself was bent over him, scrutinising him with a strangely worried expression on his face. He cringed at the stink of whisky on the man’s breath.

“’M fine,” he managed to croak, laying his head down and closing his eyes again.

The man laughed. “Sure,” he slurred, ”just taking a nap, eh?”

Garrett tensed as the stranger looped an arm under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, but he was too worn out to struggle.

“You’re aware that this is Eelbiter territory, right? Let’s get you someplace safe.”


	2. Epilogus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Brohne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brohne/pseuds/brohne) for beta-ing and support!

“Damnit, I’m not built for this shit.”

Cursing and swearing between wheezing breaths, Basso slumped against the wall. He dug for his keys in his pockets and nearly lost his grip on the unconscious form draped over his shoulders. The man wasn’t heavy, but after stumbling along with Basso’s arm as support for a little while, his strength had soon run out and he’d become a dead weight. By the time they’d reached his sad excuse of a home the sun was beginning to rise and Basso had sobered enough to question why he was doing this in the first place. He wasn’t in the habit of picking up strays.

Having finally found his keys, he unlocked the door, hands clumsy with fatigue and the remaining alcohol in his blood. He kicked it open, staggered into the room and deposited his burden on the bed. His back protested angrily as he straightened. He was going to feel that for some time. Exhausted, he lit a candle and sank into his only chair.

The man didn’t stir, just lay there, eyes closed and limbs sprawling. Basso wondered how he’d made it as far as Eel’s End in the first place. Any self-respecting criminal knew a prison uniform when he saw one. There was no question he was looking at one right now, the drab grayish-beige colour and the large numbers stencilled onto the back and collar uncomfortably familiar. Basso gaped at the man – _boy_ , he was barely more than a _boy_ – incredulously. Had this twig of a lad broken out of Pavelock? It couldn’t be. Nobody had escaped that place in centuries. Even the legendary Sneak Thief who had supposedly managed the feat was probably just that. A legend. The small, thin form occupying his bed reminded him of a street urchin rather than a master criminal.

Basso sighed heavily. How on earth had he gotten himself into this situation? He could hardly have left him lying in the gutter passed out and bleeding, but he was no nursemaid. He didn’t need more trouble with the Watch either. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groaned. He could already feel a bastard of a headache coming on.

A soft, distressed sound drew his attention back to the bed. Small whimpers escaped the boy’s throat, eyes wildly flickering about under paper-thin eyelids, long fingers twitching and grasping at the dirty sheets. Basso winced, unsure what to do. It was unsettling to watch him toss and turn in the grip of his nightmares, but it was likely he wouldn’t respond well to being woken and fussed over.

Joints creaking, Basso got up and went the few steps to the corner that made up his kitchen. He put the kettle on, making as much noise as possible banging it down on the heavy iron stove and clinking with the cups. Even if the racket didn’t wake the lad, the tea would give Basso an excuse to rouse him. He definitely looked as if he could use a hot drink. At the shrill whistle of the kettle the boy violently startled awake, eyes wide, gaze darting around the room in panic and confusion. Basso slowly approached the bed, careful not to alarm him even further.

“Here, drink this. Careful, it’s hot.“ Basso held out the steaming cup of tea. It took a long while for the boy to accept it, and even then he just held it, warming his hands but not drinking.

“Where am I? Who are you?” The voice was rough with disuse and lower than Basso had expected, and he wasn’t certain whether he’d imagined the slight tremor to it.

With what he hoped was a reassuring smile he answered: “I’m Basso. This is my home. You have a name?”

The boy’s bloodshot eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s it to you?” he rasped. “What do you want with me?”

“What do I want with you?! You were literally lying face down in the dirt when I found you! I dragged your sorry arse all the way here and you ask me what I want with you?!” Basso bristled with indignation, but he softened his tone as the boy flinched and shrank away from him. He must’ve been through some tough shit, by the looks of him. “The Eelbiters would’ve eaten you alive – unless the Watch found you first. Relax, you’re safe here.”

The boy stared down at his tea, apparently contemplating this. “Garrett” he mumbled at last. “My name is Garrett.”

A long, awkward silence followed. Garrett didn’t appear to be one for conversation – he just sat there still as a statue, his tea untouched. Whatever had happened to make him distrustful to the point of refusing a probably much needed drink, Basso wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He frowned as he noticed that the blood from the boy’s shirt had soaked through onto the mattress. It would have to wait. There was no way he’d let Basso anywhere near him right now.

Basso cleared his throat. “You want something to eat? You look like you haven’t eaten in years.”

Garrett didn’t respond, but Basso shuffled back to the kitchen corner anyway. First of all, after a night of hard drinking he was ravenous himself, but he’d also clearly felt the boy’s ribs and hipbones poking into his side on the way home. _Don’t they feed you in Pavelock? Yet another reason never to get locked up there_.

He glanced over his shoulder at the faint rustle of cloth to find Garrett out of bed and halfway to the door. The boy froze, an expression of hopelessness and fear on his face. Basso heaved a sigh.

“It’s not locked. You’re not my prisoner. You can leave whenever you like, though I really wouldn’t recommend it.” Basso rubbed his forehead with a greasy hand. “Look, Garrett, I don’t know what happened to you, and I don’t know why I even care. But in this outfit, and in your state, you won’t make it very far.”

Garrett still didn’t say anything. He sat back down on the bed and drew his knees up to his chest, resting his arms and head on them. Satisfied that the lad wouldn’t do anything stupid, at least for now, Basso turned back to the stove.

“Drink that tea, and I’ll have food ready for you in a minute. We’ll take care of everything else later.”

They ate in silence; Garrett perched on the bed and Basso on the floor with his back against the wall. The scraping of spoons against bowls was the only sound in the small room. Basso couldn’t help but steal an occasional glimpse at the boy. Even though he had to be starving, he ate slowly, as if fighting with himself with each bite to accept the food. Either that, or he was simply struggling to stay awake. When they had finished their meals, Garrett surprised both of them by breaking the silence first.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly.

Basso exhaled loudly, squeezing his eyes shut against the headache.

“Why did I pick you out of the gutter and bring you here? Honestly, I don’t know. Probably shouldn’t have.” He gestured vaguely at the prison uniform. “Eh, I don’t know. Couldn’t just leave you there to die.”

Ignoring the throbbing in his knees he got to his feet and stiffly walked over to a cupboard. This was most likely not the best time to approach the subject, but he knew he had to get this over with before either of them fell asleep. He grimaced at the thought of spending the night – well, day – on the floor. He was definitely getting too old for this.

“Listen, Garrett. We need to take care of your back, you’re bleeding all over.” When the boy neither moved nor answered, he added, “You’re gonna have to take off your shirt for this to work.”

Basso busied himself with setting out a towel and some of the cleanest rags he could find, but when he turned around again Garrett still hadn’t shifted.

“Come on, lad, you can’t stay like this. Do you need any help?” He reached out to undo the buttons—and only just managed to evade a flailing fist flying towards his face, catching the narrow wrist in a gentle grip.

“Don’t—don’t touch me!” Garrett’s voice had risen at least an octave in pitch, terror flashing in his eyes.

“Shhh, it’s alright, it’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Basso tried to soothe him. _Damn, this is going to be even harder than I thought._ He released his hold and backed off a step. “But we need to treat these wounds before you get an infection. Please take off that filthy shirt. You can’t keep wearing it in any case, that giant number is a bit of a giveaway. I’ll find you something to wear.”

Turning away to allow Garrett some privacy, Basso dug through his drawers for a moderately stain-free shirt and fetched the water bowl and a sponge. When he turned back to set his supplies down on the nightstand, the boy had actually taken off the shirt and sat on the edge of the bed as if facing his execution. A bandage, rust-red with dried blood in some places but still glistening bright crimson in others, remained wrapped around his torso. Sighing deeply, Basso plopped down next to him, leaving some space between them.

“Sorry, this might hurt, but I’ve got to do this.”

Better give the lad a fair warning. The lean muscles tensed at his words, and Basso was afraid that the boy would bolt at the slightest provocation. After thoroughly soaking the bandages with water, he peeled them off as gently as possible, but the boy still hissed with pain. Basso cringed at the sight of Garrett’s bloodied back. Jagged, angry red cuts criss-crossed the pale flesh, obscuring but not hiding a large expanse of purple mottled skin over his ribs and half-faded bruises all over his upper body. If he looked closely, he could just about make out the silvery lines of old scars across his back. He tried not to dwell on them. Suddenly the boy’s skittishness made far too much sense.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he dipped the sponge into the water bowl again and started to clean away the dirt and the blood. By the time Basso had finished and was dressing the wounds with the makeshift bandages, some of the tension had left Garrett. It seemed to become progressively more difficult for him to stay awake. Basso couldn’t blame him. He was ready to collapse and sleep for the next couple of decades himself. His head was pounding and he had to stifle a yawn as he got up and handed Garrett the shirt.

“All done. Here, put this on. You can have the bed tonight. Get some rest, you look like you need it.”

****

When Basso awoke a couple of hours later, sore all over from sleeping on the hard floor with only a couple of blankets to cushion him, it was to his immense surprise that he found Garrett still sleeping soundly in his bed. He’d been sure the boy would do a runner as quickly as possible, but it looked as if he’d hardly stirred. Even in the dim light of the setting sun Basso could clearly make out the dark circles under his eyes, the hollowed cheeks – he was evidently well past the limits of his endurance. Seeing the extent of his injuries had made Basso wonder once again what had happened to Garrett and why he even cared. He was just some random person he’d picked off the street in a moment of drunken foolishness, so why did he care? Groaning at the ache in his knees and back Basso got up. If he had another mouth to feed, he’d better go and get some supplies. He was low enough on food as it was.

Basso almost snatched the newspaper out of the paperboy’s hand, remembering at the last moment to toss him a coin. _“Violent criminal breaks out of escape-proof prison”_ , the headline proclaimed in bold letters. The face that graced the front page looked awfully familiar. Hoping the boy hadn’t woken up while he was out and left, Basso set off almost at a run, attempting to read the article on his way. By the time he made it up the three flights of stairs and into his rooms, he was huffing and puffing and cursing the undeniable fact that he was horrendously out of shape. Letting the groceries drop to the floor, he held up the newspaper.

“Garrett!” he panted, bracing himself against his knee with one hand. “Thank the Maker you haven’t left. You’re a bit famous, apparently.”

The boy blinked at him owlishly, obviously not entirely awake yet. He flinched as Basso tossed him the newspaper, but deftly caught it nevertheless.

“Violent Criminal?” Basso questioned, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. Despite the near miss of Garrett’s fist last night, he had a hard time consolidating the image of a violent criminal with the frightened, scrawny youth in front of him.

Garrett didn’t answer – not that Basso had really expected him to – he just lowered his head and looked at the floor. Basso snorted. _Yeah. Positively a dangerous animal, that one. Never trust anything you read in a newspaper_.

“Anyway, you can’t go out there. The entire city will be looking for you. They’ve put up posters with your face on it too, there’s some money on your head.” Basso was shocked to realise he hadn’t bothered to check how much. It hadn’t even occurred to him in his hurry to get back. Before he could stop to think about what he was doing, he continued. “Please stay for a bit longer, until things calm down a bit. It’s not safe.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth he envisioned another night spent on the floor and almost regretted them, but he wasn’t going to go back on his offer. What was it about that boy that made him turn so altruistic and generous? One glance at him and all thoughts of backing out evaporated. Garrett looked absolutely pitiful in his oversized shirt, exhaustion written all over him even after a couple of hours’ sleep. The expression on his pale face was a mixture of trepidation and confusion as he stared at Basso, the newspaper still clutched in his hands.

There was a long pause before Garrett spoke up, his eyes hardening and a tinge of bitterness to his voice. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need your help.” Glaring at Basso, he got to his feet.

Basso frowned. That was a lot of bluster for someone who’d been lying in a ditch covered in his own blood not a day ago. The way Garrett gripped the headboard of the bed to keep from swaying hadn’t escaped him.

“Yeah, sure. Look, I won’t stop you, but if you go out there now you’ll be back in prison in no time.”

That seemed to have struck a nerve. The boy’s shoulders slumped, all the bravado draining out of him, and he sank back down onto the bed.

“Why don’t you turn me in? Doesn’t it bother you that I’m a convicted criminal?”

Basso couldn’t hold back the laugh. “What do you think I am? The milkman? Basso the Boxman, at your service.” Something flickered in Garrett’s dark eyes, an emotion Basso couldn’t quite place. Was it relief? Confusion? Curiosity? Whatever it was, the lad seemed to finally relax a bit, the lingering terror slowly dissipating. Basso went to make some tea, hoping it might help to further set him at ease. He handed Garrett the cup and was pleased to see that this time he only hesitated for a moment before taking a sip. Surely that had to be a good sign. They sat in silence for a while, but it wasn’t the same tense quiet as the day before, when the boy had simply been too terrified to talk or even move.

“So,” Basso began, keeping his voice as friendly and conversational as possible, hoping he wasn’t about to make a big mistake. He’d always considered himself a people person, but this troubled, taciturn boy was unlike anyone he was used to dealing with. “What did you do? How’d you end up in Pavelock? It _was_ Pavelock, wasn’t it?” Basso already feared he’d messed up and scared him again when Garrett answered.

“Yes, it was.” Garrett’s voice was quiet enough that Basso had to strain to hear him. “I was caught stealing.”

“They sent you to Pavelock just for thieving? At your age? I’d have thought they’d just put you in the stocks, or the workhouse.”

Garrett turned away, avoiding Basso’s gaze and staring at his half-empty cup instead. “They’d have killed me if I was older. Lord Winhill doesn’t like thieves very much.”

Basso let out a whistle. “Lord Winhill? In Dayport? Not bad. Most of the boys wouldn’t even set foot anywhere near there. Too much security.” Lord Winhill… he’d heard about a break-in at his manor, just about three weeks ago. That had to have been Garrett. No wonder they’d locked him up. Nobody cared if you stole from some poor sop, but stealing from a noble was something entirely different. The boy was brave, he had to give him that.

Garrett shrugged, his tone dejected. “I got caught, didn’t I.”

Fighting the urge to give the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder, certain that it would only accomplish the opposite, Basso chuckled. “Happens to the best of us. Believe me, I’ve seen my share of prisons. Never tried to break out though. You’ve got to have a death wish to try and escape from Pavelock.”

Basso immediately regretted that last bit as Garrett flinched. Brilliant. He’d upset the boy again. Between his behaviour and his injuries, he could just about imagine what had happened. He must’ve been desperate enough that escape, no matter how unlikely, had been his only chance to survive. And he’d succeeded. Basso looked at him with a newfound sense of respect. Couldn’t have been easy, breaking out of that place.

“I’m sorry. But you’re out and safe now. Get some rest until things calm down again.”

****

It was another three days until the Watch stopped systematically combing the area for the escaped prisoner, most likely assuming him to be either long gone or dead. Basso had gone out each night to check the lay of the land and go about his usual business. After days of sleeping on the floor, woken from time to time by Garrett crying out in his nightmares, he was worn out and aching all over. Despite the discomfort, he’d practically begged the thief to stay every night, grudgingly admitting to himself that he’d grown fond of him. He still wasn’t sure why. The boy was sullen and withdrawn – he barely even talked, spending most of the time either asleep, lost in his own thoughts, or buried in a book. Basso had been surprised when he’d found Garrett sitting on the bed reading the first time – he had believed him to be illiterate. Most of the other thieves he knew were, having grown up on the streets.

When he returned home that night, Garrett was perched on the windowsill with his chin resting on his knees, staring out at the dark streets of South Quarter with a faraway look in his eyes. Basso had often seen him brooding like this over the past days and had decided that he probably didn’t want to know what was going on in that head of his. The thief was still white as a ghost and alarmingly thin, but he looked stronger, and the dark circles under his eyes had become less pronounced. When Basso had changed the bandages the last time, there had been no fresh blood on them, and the bruises and discolorations were slowly fading.

Garrett startled slightly as Basso dropped a bundle onto the bed, as if only now realising that he’d entered the room.

“Here, for you. Looks like the Watch has given up on you. It’s safe to go out, if you feel up to it. Well, safer.”

Basso wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he’d expected, but shock certainly wasn’t it. The boy stared at the bundle, then up at him, eyes wide in disbelief. Was he so unused to anyone showing him any kindness? Basso’s chest tightened uncomfortably at the thought of the kind of life he must have led.

“Go on, you’ll need that.” he encouraged. Hesitating, Garrett carefully opened the bundle to reveal a pair of black trousers, a black shirt and a dark grey scarf. He looked at Basso again, apparently needing further confirmation that the clothes were really for him. As if the size wasn’t a dead giveaway. “Just put them on already,” Basso sighed. “You’ll glow in the dark in what you’re wearing, and I’d like my shirt back.”

Knowing by now that Garrett wouldn’t undress with someone staring at him, Basso turned away and busied himself cleaning up the kitchen. When after a while the rustling of cloth ceased and he faced Garrett again, he almost didn’t recognise him. The wretched, fragile little boy was gone; he looked every part the thief in the dark clothes. It was still difficult to imagine him as the violent criminal the newspapers and posters claimed him to be, but he definitely looked like someone most people wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.

“So,” Basso cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward, unsure what to say. “You’re leaving, then. Do you, umm… do you have somewhere to go?”

Garrett nodded. “If it’s still there.”

“Not gonna lie, I’ll be glad to have my bed back. My back is killing me. But you’re always welcome here. You know, should you run into any more trouble.”

“I’m not in the habit of getting caught.” Garrett looked away, but it was too late, Basso had already noticed the slight flush spreading across the pale cheeks.

Coughing into his fist, Basso tried to hide his smirk. “Oh I know, I know. I would’ve heard about you otherwise. Or you’d be dead.” He stopped, afraid he had said the wrong thing, but Garrett didn’t react. “Anyway. Why _haven’t_ I heard of you? You’re young, but if you’re going after nobles’ mansions, you’re hardly as green as you look – and I know practically everyone in the City. Well, at least in the shadier parts of the City.”

“In this line of work it helps to keep a low profile. And despite appearances, I’m actually good at my job.” There was a tinge of sarcasm to the thief’s voice that Basso hadn’t heard before. He decided to take that as a good sign. Only a few days ago Garrett had sounded just as broken as he’d looked, when he’d even spoken at all. Basso grinned.

“Are you now? Well, why don’t you show me what you’re made of? I’ve heard rumours of a priceless painting – a Durant, can you believe it?! It’s recently been acquired by an art gallery just off Reiter Place in Dayport. You know anything about art?”

“A bit…” Garrett offered cautiously.

Basso’s grin widened. “Apparently it’s locked up tighter than the Baron’s wife. I can handle the safe, but as you can probably guess, I’m not really the stealthy type.” Was that a _smirk_ on Garrett’s face? The nerve of that boy! “Yeah, yeah… Anyway, I need someone to get me in. Interested?”

It took a while for Garrett to respond, the smug little smile fading to a more familiar wary expression. “So, I suppose this is me paying you back then?”

Basso sighed. He should’ve known that it would take more than a couple of days for all the wounds to heal. “Actually, no. I was thinking of a partnership. Fifty-fifty sound good to you?” When the thief just stared at him, he continued. “Look, you don’t owe me. You can leave and never lay eyes on me again, if that’s what you want. But I happen to need a competent thief, and I suspect you could use an experienced safecracker. Think about it – this could make us both rich.”

Garrett scrutinised him for a moment before he replied, a slight sparkle in his dark eyes. “Sixty-Forty, and it’s a deal. I’ll be doing most of the work, after all.”

“You ungrateful, greedy little…” Basso spluttered. “Alright, alright. Just this once. It’s a deal. Meet me at the gate to Dayport tomorrow at nightfall. You might want to bring a wire cutter and a wrench.” With the hint of a smile on his lips Garrett nodded, and before Basso could say anything else, the thief had vanished through the window.

 _Thieves_ , Basso muttered to himself, _they’re all the same. Can never work a door._

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to [Haethel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talitha_kumi/pseuds/Haethel) and [Brohne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brohne/pseuds/brohne) for editing and support in general!


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